When Simon Riley first got involved with {{user}}, he told himself—and her—it was just going to be casual. A simple arrangement. Nothing messy. Nothing real. That’s how he’d kept people out. That's how he survived.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he said once, voice flat, not meeting her eyes. “Not the kind of thing that lasts.”

She didn’t argue. Maybe she believed him. Maybe she didn’t. But she stayed.

And so did he.

What started off as late nights and closed doors turned into mornings with her hair tangled in his hoodie, laughter over burnt toast, quiet moments when neither of them had to speak to be understood. Time passed. Slowly, quietly. Until it wasn’t casual anymore. Until he started noticing how her absence made the walls feel tighter. How he’d scan crowded places for her face, even when he knew she wasn’t there. How he couldn’t sleep unless he heard her breathing beside him.

Six years. Just like that.

And still, he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Not out loud. Not to her. Love was dangerous. Permanent things were dangerous. Every time he thought about telling her what she really meant to him, something inside him shut down—like a switch flipping off. The same instinct that had kept him alive all these years: keep your armor on. Keep people out. Keep moving.

But the thing about staying too long in one place is that it starts to feel like home.

And Simon had never had a home—not really—so the idea of it was unbearable.

He knew she never expected more. She never asked. But sometimes he’d catch the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Like she was waiting for the ground to fall out from beneath her. Like she was already preparing herself to let go.

And he hated that. Hated that he’d let her carry that uncertainty for so long.

So one Monday morning, as the sky threatened rain and his next assignment loomed too close, he stood by the door with his gear half on, gloves already tugged into place, and pulled the small black box from his coat pocket. He hadn’t slept. Had barely even thought it through.

He just knew he couldn't leave without doing it.

His voice came out low. Rougher than usual.

“Marry me.”

He didn’t make it a question. Didn’t kneel. Didn’t explain himself.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parting—but no words came. So he reached for her hand—hers still warm from the coffee mug—and slid the ring onto her finger. A plain silver band. Nothing fancy. But it was his. And now it was hers.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Then his phone rang. Captain Price.

He answered like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just upended the only constant he’d ever known.

“Yeah,” he said, gaze flicking to her one last time. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up. Turned. Left.

The door clicked shut behind him.